


train wreck

by snakeintheeye



Series: police line: do not cross [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Almost nsfw, Canon-Typical Violence, Exhibitionism, Jim doesn't like therapists, M/M, Masochism, Masturbation, Oswald stabs people because he wants to bone, Sadism, Semi-Public Sex, Songfic, Therapy, jim is sad, triple homicide yay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 11:41:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19393402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeintheeye/pseuds/snakeintheeye
Summary: inspired by the song "Train Wreck" by Divide the DayJim Gordon hates being stuck at home thinking about work.Oswald hates being stuck thinking about Jim.





	train wreck

**Author's Note:**

> part 2 of police line: do not cross which is a new series im doing of gobblepot fics all set in the same timeline!

> _ yeah i’m fucking bored _
> 
> _ i'm not looking for  _
> 
> _ the girl next door _
> 
> _ who's got it all together _
> 
> _ i need a freak _
> 
> _ who's just as twisted as me _
> 
> _ a wo(man) that scares me to death _
> 
> _ give me a train wreck _
> 
> _ -Divide the Day _

  


The police radio was the perfect white noise in the battle against the shrink unpacking Barbara’s life in the living room, and the perfect distraction from the crippling reality that just maybe Jim Gordon should unpack his whole life to a stranger too. 

_ “-armed robbery down at the narrows all available units-” _

He scolded himself for thinking how he’d rather be at work than at home. Work was dangerous, home was safe, he should  _ want _ to be safe. Work had put the shrink on their sofa and Barbara on a lengthy prescription. 

_ “-all available units!-” _

He  _ should  _ want to be safe. He  _ should  _ quit his job. He  _ should  _ get away from this city. He  _ should _ marry Barbara. He  _ should  _ be thinking of picket fences. He  _ should _ see a shrink.

_ “-we need backup-” _

He  _ shouldn’t _ feel his hand itching to be on his handgun again.    
He  _ shouldn’t  _ be counting down the seconds until he was back in the GCPD.

_ He shouldn’t ever think of Oswald Cobblepot again. _

He hated Oswald, for being impossible to kill, for ruining his career, for the assassin sent after him, for Barbara. He hated Oswald most for the way that the experience made him feel alive, everything, keeping his life a secret, their meeting in that alley, running from the mob and looking at Falcone down the barrel of a loaded weapon. It was intoxicating. Oswald was intoxicating. 

Jim wanted to put his fist in his face, among other things in other places.

His police radio had run out of juice.   


He shifted through his bedside drawer for more batteries, praying he wouldn’t need to make the journey to the kitchen drawer. He found himself in these states more and more frequently, disrupted from his dark fantasies and avoiding any situation where he would have to look Barbara in the eye, as if she could completely understand his double life and his bloodlust in one glance. 

He sighed when his efforts in his drawer produced no battery and heaved himself off his bed. He walked into the blinding light of their apartment, cursing the excessive amount of windows. He always felt like the city was looking right through him.

Barbara was confirming her next appointment, signaling her time with the stranger as over. Jim crossed the room to the kitchen, easily noticeable but wanting to be anything but. 

The therapist gave him a stern look as she left the apartment, Jim wanted to say that he knew he was a danger and he didn’t need a look from a stranger to remind him, but he just nodded politely and made a beeline for the kitchen. When the door had closed Barbara spoke, all while choosing out her daily mid afternoon wine. 

“She doesn’t like you.” She seemed amused, Jim focused on his search for batteries, opening the kitchen drawer. He didn’t like Jim Gordon either.

“I could hear you brooding from the couch.” She put her hand on his back. “You know it wouldn’t hurt to talk yourself.”    


“I don’t need it.” He needed batteries. He felt Barbara’s breath on his neck as she sighed. She had draped herself over his back.

“Okay.” They’d had this argument countless times. “What are you looking for?”

“Batteries.” 

“Why?”

“Radio. Work.” He felt her stiffen at the mention of his employment.

“I thought you were taking a break.” Her voice was cold but came from a place of concern.

“I am.” He finally uncovered a packet of batteries from under some matchboxes. He released himself from her grasp and turned back towards their bedroom. Barbara’s cold manicured hand grabbed his wrist. 

“That’s not a break.” Jim ripped his arm free, trying not to seem as irritated as he was. 

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” He wished she would stop her constant worrying, he didn’t deserve it. She deserved better than him.

Barbara sighed and let him evacuate himself from their apartment. Fully charged police radio in hand.

He didn't let anything out until he was in his car, only then did he let out his anger on his undeserving steering wheel.   
He wanted to scream but nothing came out, he was sick of that apartment, that shrink, and even Barbara. It's like he was trapped in a world of goodness and pleasantries that was eating away at him through guilt and resentment. 

Desperate to blame anyone but himself his anger turned towards Oswald, who had come into his life and forced him into a world of new and intoxicating dangers and pleasures that made any idea he had of a happy life look like a dull compromise. He now gripped the battered steering wheel, his twitching hands desperate to be around Oswald's neck. 

He fumbled through his pocket for the forgotten police radio, needing to be rescued from his own destructive thoughts. His knuckles turned white as he held the on button to his radio, needing the daily police activity to connect him back to the real world.  
But life was a cruel mistress.

_ “-spotted at dock warehouse 48! Repeat! Oswald Cobblepot spotted at dock wareho-” _

Jim switched off the radio.    
When he came to his senses he was halfway across Gotham in his car. 

\---

Oswald was three of Maroni’s cronies in and was approaching his fourth, his now wet knife glinting in his gloved hand. Not his knife of choice but, it was surprising how particular crime bosses were about their weapons, and how quickly to assume they were over the other. Oswald didn’t care for Falcone’s choice of knives, but Maroni did.    


Oswald jammed the knife into the shoulder of the fourth cronie, completely disregarding the screams, they were like a white noise to him. Besides, he had a lot else on his mind. 

He’d thought this bloodied excursion would be good to clear his head.   
Unfortunately one can’t clear their head of Jim Gordon.

No matter how satisfying the feeling of his knife breaking skin felt, it was incapable of distracting him from how much  _ more  _ satisfying Jim's skin would feel against his own. He needed Jim, who'd been driving him mental ever since their encounter at the docks. Their back alley  _ tussle _ had only added to the intensity of his infatuation. 

He was head-over-shiny-shoes in  _ lust _ with Jim. 

He hated it.

He put the now mutilated man out of his misery by slitting his throat. During his thought he had managed to leave more holes than expected in his victim, which resulted in an awful red stain on his  _ new _ dress shirt.

_ Jim should take it off. _

Oswald shook his head in retaliation to his mutinous brain and it's terrible thought. Not that this wasn't its first offence, unsaintly thoughts had been making their way into his conscious (and subconscious) for months. They kept him awake at night, unsettled in the day and in a constant need for tissues in his home. There was nowhere he could hide.

He was ashamed. Ashamed for having these helplessly  _ human  _ thoughts. Ashamed for the messes he’d made of himself when he was alone.  
Ashamed at his own lack of experience in this department. As if Jim would look twice at someone, man or woman, with any degree of celibacy around them, no matter how little of a choice they've had on it. Jim had everything he could ever want wrapped in an uptown apartment and in the shape of a pretty blonde. How could he ever want anything else?

Their alley encounter was an accident, a fluke, a chance that was never coming again.

Jim was a man far from Oswald’s reach.

So far apparently that his car was pulling into the very same warehouse where Oswald was still standing in the company of three fresh cadavers, bloodstained dress shirt and all. Not that Oswald noticed until the man himself yelled his name.

“Oswald! Drop the knife!” Yelled the cop, who was known to be off duty.   
Oswald, after letting out a horribly loud squawk of surprise, did the exact opposite, he gripped onto the knife for dear  _ life _ . Almost wondering if Jim was a figure of his imagination. Were his eyes turning on him along with his mind?

Apparently not. Jim, who by now had pieced together the triple homicide Oswald had just committed, had grabbed the criminal by his collar with one hand, and easily managed to wrestle the knife from his grasp with the other. Oswald, pathetically, had put up no fight, only managing to gasp.

“Jim!?” 

He could feel the detectives hot breath on his face, they were incredibly close. Too close. When Jim became aware of this he shoved Oswald off him, who stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over his leg.   
Jim looked around in almost a panic, which lead his his eyes to the gore that surrounded them. 

“You did  _ this _ .” He accused, pointing to one of the bodies. Oswald cringed at the mangled corpse, riddled with stab wounds, although he was far more concerned for the evidence of his emotions rather than the violence of the murder. He looked back at Jim, who’s knuckles were white from holding the knife, he looked furious, disgusted, disgusted at  _ Oswald _ .

He cursed himself for wishing to be near Jim. All the shine of his sudden apparition was destroyed by the way he was looking at Oswald. His eyes old Oswald he was filthy,  _ inhuman _ even.    
Oswald’s hands turned to fists by his side. He felt so exposed, Jim had infiltrated something so very  _ private _ and was now throwing it back in his face. It was almost like he wasn’t horrified at the murder but somehow  _ knew _ Oswald’s repressed desires and was condemning him for them. 

“I  _ did! _ ” He choked, not knowing if he wanted to scream at Jim or hide.    
“What are you going to do? Arrest me? I don’t see your badge-” Jim took a step towards him, his hand reaching instinctively for a gun he didn’t have.

“ _ Why did you do it? _ ” Jim desperately spat, the knife now in his free, outstretched, trembling hand. Oswald, stepped back, raising his hands slowly in the air.  
He was about to open his mouth when a loud siren rang out through the warehouse. 

**_“THIS IS THE POLICE! LOWER YOUR WEAPON!”  
_ ** A police car had pulled up at the entrance, two officers were climbing out of the vehicle. 

\---

Jim’s stomach dropped through the floor. He was  _ completely _ aware of what this looked like and  _ who  _ was holding the knife.  
Without looking behind him he ran.

“ _ Hey! _ Stop!”

He grabbed Oswald by the arm on his way past, pulling him towards stacked shipping containers where they could lose the police.  
Oswald was slower, a liability, but in the heat of the moment Jim almost wanted to  _ protect _ him.

They could hear the echoed sound of sprinting boots behind them. Jim led Oswald into what quickly became a labyrinth of large steel containers and dock equipment. They still had some distance on the policemen, Jim looked frantically around for an open container to hide in, pulling Oswald further and further through the steel halls. 

They came to a dead end, Jim stood, staring at the wall in front of him. He felt Oswald tear himself from his grasp. He could hear the policemen arguing with themselves on what way they went. It wouldn’t be long before he was found.

He was close to coming to terms with his fate when two hands grabbed his arm and pulled him into the dark.    
Oswald had found an open container and pulled him inside. 

There was enough light in the container for Jim to see, there were some rusted holes in a top corner, he looked at Oswald, who was red faced and panting like he ran a mile. He was annoyed to.

“You called the cops!-” Oswald shrilled, eyes going wide when Jim clamped his hand over his mouth, holding him against the wall of the container. He leaned down to Oswald.

“ _ Why _ would I run?” He hissed. Not that he wanted to admit the truth.  
Oswald looked away, he was breathing heavily through his nose, Jim realised he was out of breath too. 

They stayed that way, silent apart from heavy breaths, until they could hear the policemen approaching. Jim tensed up, he could feel Oswald grip his arm harder.    
They could hear footsteps outside the container. Jim pressed against Oswald, who’s nails were now digging into his arm.   
They both held their breath.

“Let’s circle back.” One cop said, after what felt like hours.

“They’ll show themselves, and if not-” said the other.

“No paperwork.” said the first cop, classic GCPD.

Jim waited until long after their footsteps were gone to release Oswald. Now realising just how close they were.    
Oswald looked away from Jim, still catching his breath. 

Jim felt the knife still in his hand. He could end this. They were so close, he could do it. He could do what he was told to do all those months ago.   
He could  _ kill _ Oswald, he was high enough on adrenaline. He could kill him and go home, go home Barbara and his life. 

_ Why didn’t he want that? _

He lifted the knife and held it to Oswald’s neck.  
“I  _ should _ kill you.” he seethed.

Oswald put his hands on Jim’s chest, but made no attempt to push him off. Jim burned through his shirt where he felt his hands, his own hand holding the knife becoming softer.   
Underneath him Oswald looked desperate for something that wasn’t his death, his face was red and his eyes pained.

Jim gave in when Oswald fisted his shirt in his hands.

\---

This was a rather cruel and perfect situation. 

Oswald could still feel Jim pressed against him, there was no way he could deny his presence, no matter where else he looked. Crueler still was how out of control he felt, he was aware of his knife, still aware of the destructive person holding it. It felt so  _ good _ , surely Jim knew how crazy this was driving him.

He suddenly felt a cold, wet blade against his neck.

He gasped softly and looked at Jim, who looked determined, but not in his death.  
“I  _ should _ kill you.” His voice was harsh and sent electricity (and blood) rushing through Oswald, it was so inappropriately intoxicating. 

He put his hands in front of him instinctively, which meant they were now on Jim’s chest.

Oswald cursed himself, his hands turning to fists with Jim’s shirt, he wanted to pull him even closer if that were possible. He wanted to remove the shirt now bundled in his hands. He wanted  _ Jim _ , even if it meant dying in the process. 

He heard a clatter of metal on metal, before he could look he felt lips against his own.

\---

Months of built up resentment and frustration were pouring out of Jim by the gallon, easily aided by their intense situation. It was thrilling, and Jim was far too distracted to hate himself for it.

He held Oswald's face with both hands, his thumbs pressing dangerously firmly against the sides of his neck, he would be concerned but when he pressed harder Oswald moaned softly against his lips.   
While they roughly kissed Oswald's shaking hands unbuttoned Jim's shirt, then pushed his undershirt up and snaked his clammy hands around Jim's upper stomach and sides. 

The air in the container was getting hotter. Jim stepped back and pulled Oswald forward to remove his jacket and vest, which he easily unbuttoned. When Jim’s hands met skin Oswald pressed up against him needily, causing their bodies to grind together. 

Being this close to Oswald Jim could feel that he  _ really _ wasn't the only one of the two to be excited by this encounter. Their mouths were still moving against one another as they clung desperately to the others torso. Finally Jim broke their kiss when Oswald rubbed up against him a little too well, causing him to throw him back against the container wall, making a loud crashing sound as consequence 

Quickly realising his mistake he clamped his hand over Oswald's mouth, who had replied to the violent shove with a lustful gasp. Jim would have to wonder about that later. He hid his head in the crook of Oswald's neck, cursing under his breath. He listened out for the two cops, who by no doubt had heard the sound. 

Standing in silence pressed against Oswald did nothing to calm Jim down, the last thing on his mind was the consequences if he were to be caught. Instead his thoughts were on the position he was in, how he could feel Oswald’s warm lips against his palm and how devastatingly hot it was.

Unable to practice both caution and control Jim slipped his hand back under Oswald's shirt, firmly gripping his hip as he continued to grind their bodies against each other. He could feel Oswald's muffled gasp against his palm, which quickly became a groan as he dug his nails into his side. The harder he dug the more the criminals back arched. Jim didn't question it.

They could hear footsteps over the sound of their own combined breathing. Jim considered stopping but found his hand only pressing harder against Oswald's wet mouth. Their two tense bodies continued to grind against each other, sweaty from the hot air surrounding them.

Muffled voices were heard outside the container. It only made Jim's hunger grow.

He fully let go the moment that silence returned.

**Author's Note:**

> hi! its been forever since i posted but i wanted to say a big THANK YOU to everyone who read my gobblepot epilogue, it hit 400 a few days ago and i cried like a baby
> 
> also i still cant write a nsfw scene for these two!!! im so mad @ myself as its gotta HAPPEN!!!


End file.
